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The Autobiography of Gucci Mane
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Gucci Mane, born Radric Delantic Davis, is a critically acclaimed,
platinum-selling recording artist. He has released nine studio albums
and dozens of mixtapes. He lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with his wifeÂ
Keyshia Kaâ€oir. The Autobiography of Gucci Mane is his first book.Neil
Martinez-Belkin is the former music editor at XXL Magazine and has
written extensively about contemporary hip-hop with a regional focus on
Atlanta. He lives in Boston. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All
rights reserved. The Autobiography of Gucci Mane PROLOGUE September 13,
2013 The police had taken my pistol the day before but I wasnâ€t
without heavy arms. Iâ€d been stockpiling weapons at the studio.
Glocks, MAC-10s, ARs fitted with scopes and hundred-round monkey nuts.
All out in the open for easy access. I was in Tony Montana mode, bracing
for a final standoff. I didnâ€t know when it would happen, who it would
be, or what would force its occurrence, but one thing I did know:
something bad was going to happen and it was going to happen soon. I
looked around my studio. The Brick Factory. It seemed like just
yesterday this had been the spot. Everybody would be over here. At all
hours of the day for days on end. But now the Brick Factory looked more

like an armory than a place where music was made. Iâ€d seen the looks
on peopleâ€s faces when they came through. My studio was no longer a
fun place to be. Onetime regulars started dropping like flies until I
was the only one left. Alone. Everyone was scared again. Not just scared
of what was going on with me but scared of me. Scared to call me. Scared
to see me. Keyshia had tried to be a voice of reason. She tried telling
me the things I was stressing over werenâ€t as bad as I was making them
out to be. That my problems were manageable. That we could figure them
out together. But I was too far gone and even Keyshia had her limits. A
few days earlier Iâ€d snapped on her and sheâ€d hung up the phone.
Sheâ€d had enough. A paranoid mess, I went and checked the CCTV monitor
for any activity outside. None. The parking lot was empty. The gate was
secure. If that brought me any peace of mind, it disappeared as soon as
I looked away from the screen, down at my feet. The ankle monitor. I was
a sitting duck. Everyone knew I was here. And they knew I couldnâ€t
leave. That wasnâ€t entirely true. I wasnâ€t supposed to leave. But I
had, the day before, when Iâ€d gone to my lawyer Drewâ€s office and
the police got called. They found a loaded .45 next to my belongings.
They let me go but took the strap with them to get fingerprinted and
turned in to evidence. I knew my days were numbered. Iâ€d violated my
house arrest and had a run-in with the law while doing so. Fuck it. If I
was going back to jail anyway, I might as well go find these niggas
Iâ€d been having problems with. These were my old partners, but things
had soured and theyâ€d been sending threats my way. I didnâ€t want to
wait until I got out of jail to see if